The Stain
I look at it, this permanent stain
And am reminded of all of the pain.
This splotch created from reasons inane;
Let me take the time and try to explain.
It was the summer of 2006,
The first time I was hit with his fist.
I caught him thieving and he got pissed,
So his fist and my face began to kiss.
I saw bright stars as I hit the floor.
Punched by the man that I chose to adore.
Betrayal dug deep into my very core,
As my face stung and became very sore.
I looked down to see blood on my shirt,
My ACADEMY tee, large and covert.
At that moment, I felt lower than dirt,
Immobilized and shocked from all of the hurt.
The stain of dried blood that won't come out.
I tried so hard; I even used SHOUT.
Hatred for him slowly came about.
Everything about me I began to doubt.
Why keep evidence of a painful past?
That's a question I'm frequently asked.
Violence was sadly part of my life's cast.
That's why it hasn't yet been trashed.
I look at my stain as a love gone wrong,
A stain that contains a sad love song,
A stain that sets off a mental gong,
But the sound of the noise doesn't stay long.
This stain screams of a time of nonsense
When love superseded all common sense.
I have overcome domestic violence
And I no longer live in the defense.
This dried blood blot does not control me.
It is permanent but the pain's temporary.
So now you understand the painful story
Of the stain blazoned upon my old, white tee.
Copyright © Constance Gilmore | Year Posted 2012
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